


What Matters Still Remains

by matrix3



Category: Ghost in the Shell (Anime & Manga), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Body Modification, Cybernetics, Cyborgs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrix3/pseuds/matrix3
Summary: When Taylor takes self-improvement to new levels, where is the boundary between improving herself and creating something entirely new?





	1. Chapter 1

I saw my reflection in the dead TV screen as I opened the door. I froze as my stomach dropped through my feet. Part of my mind was amused I could still experience that sensation, there must be more of a mental component to dread than I realized. The rest of my mind, though? The rest of my mind was panicking. We always kept the TV on. Mom had...well, she hadn't "hated" television, but she wasn't a big fan. We were all such avid readers, though, that we only really used it to watch an occasional movie or to catch the news. After she died, the house was so empty. For two weeks, I was a robot going through a routine, and Dad vanished into his room, barely managing to come out for crumbs of food and the bathroom.

Then I put on PBS one day, some cooking show, and just sat on the couch. I didn't really watch anything, I absorbed the words, the music, the colors. Time passed, and a Bob Ross marathon came on. Dad came down at some point for a mug of coffee and a bit of toast, and was heading back to the stairs when he stopped. And stood there.

He watched the show for a solid minute, then looked at me for another minute. He finally eased onto the couch next to me. He didn't say anything, I didn't say anything, but we sat together and watched Bob Ross for three hours. It was the most time we'd spent together since the funeral. The TV had been on ever since. It was just too quiet otherwise. It soothed us while we slept upstairs, and welcomed us when we got home. It was always on.

Except it wasn't.

"Dad?" I called as I concentrated, opening my senses. The hint of charred plastic from the TV was suddenly almost painfully sharp in my nose, but I heard breathing from the dining room.

"In here, Taylor," Dad's voice was tight as it echoed from the dining room. My dread increased, I recognized when he was holding his temper. It was rarely directed at me, but I knew it from listening to him on the phone with the Mayor's office, or one of the transport companies that kept pulling jobs out of the city. "Come here, please."

I carefully closed and locked the door, then dropped my bag below the coat hooks on the wall. The burnt plastic probably meant the TV died and Dad discovered my modifications when he tried to fix it. I took a deep breath as I headed to the dining room. I could handle that. I could explain it. Maybe it died on me, and I tried to fix it to save money. I knew that we had troubles --

My train of thought derailed as I came around the wall. This was bad. Dad was sitting in a chair across the table from me, with a small red cooler on the table between us. The cooler was nothing, a lunch sized cooler I picked up for two bucks at a Goodwill store. The problem was the contents of the cooler. It should be in the basement with the rest of my equipment in my hacked together lab.

"Dad, you said you'd leave the basement alone. I'm doing some delicate --"

"Experiments. I know. I saw...some of them," he finished weakly, waving at the cooler.

"You...opened it?" I hated how my voice cracked. If I'd spent more time on the personality hacking, I could have installed emotional filters and maybe kept the conversation more rational. But after the locker, I'd prioritized the physical augments.

I took a deep breath, but otherwise stood silently, my eyes on the cooler. After a moment, I asked quietly, "Can I sit down?"

I could see Dad blink a couple times out of the corner of my eye, then nod. "Sure, that's...a good idea. Have a seat and we'll, just...discuss a few things."

I sat in the chair in front of me, right across from Dad. I kept my eyes on the cooler as I placed my hands flat on the table, savoring the faint pattern of wood grain. I was especially proud of my sense of touch. It had taken a lot of work, but it had turned out perfectly.

Dad didn't say anything for at least a minute while I enjoyed the subtle wood grain. Finally, he cleared his throat. "So," he said, then went quiet again. A deep breath, and he continued, "I was watching the news, when there was a pop and the TV died. So did all the lights."

He paused again, maybe waiting for me to crack and say something. I don't know, but I kept my mouth closed and eyes on the cooler. "If it was just the living room, maybe I would have waited for you to get home. In case I messed up an...experiment. But it was all the lights on the first floor. Something was wrong with the circuit breakers, and messing up an experiment is better than an electrical fire burning down the house. So I went downstairs."

I saw his hands become fists on the table behind the cooler, his knuckles going white with pressure. "This was on the workbench, and I saw the...tent...thing."

My head snapped up. "Did you go inside?"

Dad shook his head, "No, I just saw the robotic, uh, arms, or whatever, through the plastic, and some of the tools on my old work bench, with...this," he nodded at the cooler, and I dropped my gaze again. "I took it up here, by the window, to look inside."

Dad seemed a little pale, so I steered the conversation away from the cooler. "The tent is a clean room. Or, at least, the best I managed to jury-rig in the basement."

"Clean room?" Dad asked with a sigh. He probably caught the unsubtle attempt to guide the conversation. "Like the commercial? For the computer chips?"

I shrugged. "Don't know about the commercial," I stretched my neck a bit, left then right. Still a few kinks to work out. I looked him in the eyes before continuing, "It's a positive pressure clean room, like, um," I tried to think of something he would be familiar with. I winced as a thought struck me, but it should work. "It's sort of like an isolation room at a hospital."

He looked a little sick at the reminder of the hospital after the locker. "Isolation? Is there something...contagious?"

I shook my head once. "No, Dad, it's positive pressure, keeping stuff out, not keeping something in."

"Why would you need something like that?" He winced as his eyes darted to the cooler.

We were getting closer to the center of the problem. "I need it to keep down contaminants," I said, trying to keep it clinical.

"Taylor," Dad said, steeling himself. "Just tell me." He pushed the button on the side of the cooler, sliding the white lid back. "Are these hands?"

I glanced at the chilled lumps in the cooler. "These are not flesh and blood, Dad, if that's your real question." He took a deep breath, and nodded at me to continue. "They are prototypes based on my own hands, which is why they look like my hands. I'm only keeping those around for study, though. They were an early exploration of mycology in designing a synthetic skin replacement to achieve seamless neuroprosthetics."

Dad's eyes were a little unfocused. "Uh, so. Tinker?"

I snorted. "Yep, tinker."

"I thought so," He said with a small grin. It didn't last long. "I was looking up some info. And, I read about...triggers." I winced, going back to studying the prototype trans-radial prosthetics in the cooler.

"Oh," Dad's voice was soft. "The locker?" I nodded. "We won't need to, uh, go over that right now." He reached across the table, laying his hand on mine. "We do have to talk about the basement, though. And other things. The info I found, it talks about gangs and how they have abducted tinkers."

I shook my head. "I know what you're going to say, Dad, I've spent hours looking over that same info. I...can't deal with a team right now. I just need to come to terms with my own stuff, first. Maybe later, I can join the Protectorate."

"You won't be--" Dad started harshly, then stopped himself. He took a breath, glancing up to the ceiling and drumming on the table for a moment. After a moment, he looked back at me. "I don't want you to go out without backup. Someone who can actually help if you get in trouble. You don't want the Wards...ok. We can set up something for training, working on your...experiments. Keep things as quiet as possible. You don't 'patrol'," his voice soured on the word, but he pushed through, "you don't go looking for trouble. You will, of course, defend yourself if attacked, but avoid the same places you avoided before."

I just nodded. There had to be a shoe waiting to drop.

He nodded as well. "For now, we research. I found what I could online, but I didn't want to get too far into it from home in case they track the research. But, I did read that Tinkers tend to throw off big signals: raiding junk yards, buying electronics at second hand stores...stealing. And a spike in electricity usage can be a give away, of course. I have ideas to deal with these problems, but we need to think of everything. If you aren't on a team, then your family is your team. Which means just you and me right now. That's a lot of work for two people."

"Work doesn't scare me, Dad."

He nodded, but didn't look happy. "But teams also communicate.

"I'm sure there's a lot you don't want to talk about," Dad's voice was quiet, almost hoarse, as he continued, "A lot that...I won't want to hear. But we will have to go through it."

I nodded. He seemed to be talking himself into just about what I wanted to do, except for talking about everything, so I stayed silent.

He looked around the room, at the china cabinet to my left, one of the bookcases in the living room behind me. Everywhere, it seemed, but at me, while his hands fidgeted on the table and jaw clenched and released. Suddenly, his lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. "There was one time, you would have been maybe ten, and I overheard you and Emma talking about boys. She had said something about how 'hot' this or that boy was, and I just about sent her home. I told your mother how you were too young for talk like that, and she just smiled at me. A smile that made me feel that I had just complained about a drop of rain hitting me while a dam was bursting behind my back."

Dad took a deep breath and leaned back. The mention of Mom and Emma wasn't...pleasant, to say the least, but he was getting to something. "She ended up getting me a couple books, about Dads with teen or tween daughters. They didn't exactly prepare me for..." he waved his hand at me, the cooler, and vaguely around the room, "all this. But, like your mom would say, 'If you don't see the book you want...'" he trailed off, looking at me.

"...'write it'," I finished for him. "Yeah, Beverly Cleary, I think. So...you think this is a book we should write, then?"

Dad shrugged. "I don't know how applicable it would be to others, but we could try," a half smile bloomed, "We could call it 'Oblivious Fathers, Tinkering Daughters: 12 secrets every dad should know'."

I chuckled. "How about: 'Super Dads with Superhero Daughters'?"

He huffed, almost a laugh, but it faded quickly. "Before we get to the 'superhero', we still haven't really talked. I read that tinkers tend to have specialties. I guess, with the 'prototypes' here, your specialty has something to do with prosthetics? You make them for people or something?"

I studied the table and bit my lip for a moment, then shrugged. He wanted to know so badly...

I looked at him and wobbled my hand in the air, "Sort of. I see people with missing limbs, or with permanent damage, and I get ideas for pretty basic replacements. Probably better than on the market right now, but not what you would usually think of as 'tinker tech'."

He just looked at me steadily, waiting.

"But," I took a breath, then snorted, "it sounds so 'after school special'...but, I look in a mirror, and I see so much that's wrong. That could be improved. And all the supporting technologies are just...there. The prototypes, I mentioned the investigation of using a fungus to create synthetic skin. I just knew what spores I needed to start, how to modify the spores, how to culture them and create a support structure on the prosthetic, how to use that lattice and the fungus to store fake blood with my own DNA and grow sparse fake hair....all of it. And that was after the knowledge of creating the prosthetic itself. Which, in turn, required knowledge of how to create the tools and robotic helper arms and clean room and the carbon nanotubes and optical chips and neural linkages...so much."

Dad's eyes had glazed a bit at the end there, but he recovered quickly. "That's a lot of knowledge, kiddo. What are you, ah, working on now, after these hands?"

I tried to smile, but I could tell from Dad's reaction it was a little off. How do I tell him?

Coming to a decision, I moved the cooler aside and reached out with my left hand. Dad engulfed it with his right hand. His hand dwarfed my own, and even after almost twenty years behind a desk, it was chapped and rough from his time loading ships. I squeezed, and his grip tightened in response.

"Do you feel my skin, Dad?" He nodded, and I turned my hand over so my wrist was exposed. "Now, feel my pulse."

He placed two fingers of his hand at the base of my thumb, soon finding the pulse there.

"Full disclosure, for my teammate. For the co-author of this book, right?" He nodded.

"I made the hands in the cooler...in early February, Dad."

His eyebrows jumped. "Two months ago?"

I nodded as I took a bracing breath. "The hand you're holding...everything you -- you see of me," I brushed my right hand down my cheek, struggling to just get it all out in the open. "I made all of it. That's what I worked on after those hands."

 

He shook his head, gripping my hand tightly. "What are you saying, Taylor?"

"I'm saying," I said in a low voice, "that after the...locker...I was...maimed. Infections. Fractures everywhere, basically. Hands and feet from struggling against the locker door. Knees and hips...elbows...from the stress position. Skull from pounding on the wall..." I stopped and took a breath. He knew the injuries. Listing the rest wouldn't help.

"I was in physical therapy. Taking a rotating list of painkillers and anti-biotics...and anti-psychotics. It's amazing what I could extract from a dozen different prescription medications. What I could build from a catalog of assistive devices. Even when my hands had, mostly, healed, there was limited dexterity. I could build the big tools. The first generation of the arms downstairs. I used joysticks and programming to use those to build smaller manipulators. Then those built the first generation of the neural interface. External, adhering to my scalp...terrible lag. But that let me build new robotic arms, stronger and more precise. With those I built a support frame, an exo-skeleton, to travel farther and get more metal."

Dad straightened at that, but I pre-empted him, "No, not a junkyard or the Ship Graveyard. I didn't need much, really, or top quality. I got metal from recycling bins, especially pineapple cans --"

"Pineapple?" Dad blurted out.

"Yeah," I grinned. "They're so acidic, the companies use bi-metal cans. I just strip out the steel, and there are some uses for the tin as well. And I grabbed pieces of abandoned cars. I spread out my scavenging as much as possible.

"I spent a few weeks iterating like this. Struggling, crippled, in a powered support frame. Struggling against my power to even build the support frame.

"My power was always filling my head with ideas on changing my body, implanting things, so many ideas...but they required too much. I'd have to steal: raid a pharmacy, or an auto parts store. Finally, I broke through to the tools I really needed. Tools that I didn't need to hold with mangled, nerve damaged hands. Tools I controlled with my thoughts. And then...then my power sang to me."

I looked over at the cooler, but didn't let go of Dad's hand. "The neural link worked both ways. Easy enough to put a nerve block on it. No need for sedation. I had already established the habit of wearing gloves and long sleeves, a lack of synthetic skin on the first few models didn't really matter. I made a couple prototype hands to iron out the kinks, then..."

I cleared my throat as I looked Dad in the eyes. "I installed the first pair on January 30th, at 2:38AM. I upgraded over the next two weeks as I increased motor fidelity and material quality, while experimenting with synthetic skins."

I nodded at the cooler. "That was the first pair with a mycological base, and worked pretty well, but didn't react well to humidity, and had a sensitivity to sunlight." I looked back at Dad, holding my right hand in a shaft of light from the setting sun that streamed through our window. "My current skin doesn't have that downside.

"My legs had unique challenges. I didn't have concerns over covering them, it's winter and it's been years since I wore shorts or skirts in the summer. But, I couldn't risk you noticing a change in my gait. You might fear a relapse of my recovery. I also had limits on strength and energy generation."

I shook my head, "Not the time to get into all of that, though. I worked through the problems. Modified coral in a small aquarium in the basement to provide a growth matrix for interfacing with bone. New forms of ceramics, bio-mimetic materials, artificial musculature, epidermal sealant, organic reactors...so many advances. That I couldn't share, because it might draw attention.

"I installed my feet and ankles February third. Upgraded those and installed knees the seventeenth. Upgraded both arms to the shoulders the nineteenth. But then, March tenth, while you were in D.C. for two days lobbying with the other Union leaders, I installed the rest. Upgraded pelvis, hips, and legs. Optimized stomach and lungs. Shoulders, spine, cranial reinforcement. Ocular implants. Couldn't risk scars, so full dermal conversion."

Dad was shaking, tears tracing his cheeks. "You..." he took a breath, almost a gasp, before continuing. "are you still in there?"

I squeezed his hand. "What matters, Dad. I improved almost 90 percent of my body, but what matters still remains."


	2. Chapter 2

It took almost an hour for Dad to adjust to the news. At least, adjust enough to continue talking. He'd spent the time almost hyperventilating, at first, then moved on to examining my arms and head with a fine toothed comb. Literally. He went to the bathroom for a comb and picked through my scalp. It was a little flattering that even with such an examination, my own father couldn't tell the skin was fake.

"So, you, ah, 'installed' this skin a month ago?"

I shrugged. "The first stable version. This was upgraded nineteen days ago."

"You did all this in two months, including building iterations of tools," Dad paused, swallowing, "What have you been working on for the last three weeks?"

I grinned, "Let me show you the basement."

His eyes were tight as I led him to the door off the kitchen. But, he didn't hesitate to follow me as I opened the door and headed down the steps.

"Now," I started as I flipped the light switches, "still no going in there without decon procedures, but I can show you."

I pulled a small LCD screen off a shelf below the work bench. "I haven't needed this since the interface got up to speed, but I can still route the video feed to it for you."

I had to dig around to find a few cables and an adapter, but barely a minute later the screen lit up with a view of my work in progress.

"This," I said as a black and grey armored form appeared on the screen, "is my Mobile Assault Response Suit...or MARS. Most of my time the last few weeks has been spent on new tools and processes to build this. I'm edging well into nanotechnology here.

"Well," I amended with a shrug, "I already had to get into nanotechnology for a proper neural interface, but this held entirely different challenges. This body was not so much built as it was grown, and nanotech was used in some way at every step. To build the synthetic abalone shell for the primary armour, to spin out lab grown proteins into spider silk, then knit and twist the silk into the musculature and the 'skin' of the secondary armour, to monitor the fractal foam geometry for growing the bones --"

"Taylor," Dad interrupted with a grin, "I'm getting about every third word here." He glanced at the screen, then faced me. "This looks like a walking tank. It's, what, six and a half feet tall?"

I nodded, "Just about. And weighs almost five hundred pounds."

"Yeah, I -- wait, only five hundred? The stats on Armsmaster's suit puts it at 750, and he's the efficiency tinker"

A smug smile tugged at my lips. "Well, he's probably has to use some exotic, really dense materials for energy storage and strength augmentation. I don't have to keep room for a body inside the suit, so I have more room to maneuver."

"Huh," he said, then shook his head. "Anyway, what I was going to say, this looks like you'll be inviting trouble."

"I have to be able to defend myself," I said, turning to look at MARS through the plastic sheeting, "and you. And if an Endbringer shows up here --"

"No!" I spun around at his shout. "Sorry, Taylor, but...an Endbringer? You're not..." He shook his head as he trailed off.

I sighed and hugged him. "I can't drown or burn, Dad," I murmured into his shoulder. "My senses are already beyond human, and getting better with every revision. MARS can shift rubble, lift cars, and I can pack a med kit better than any normal ambulance. I can help..."

"Oh, kiddo," he returned my hug absently, lost in his own thoughts.

I basked in the hug for a few moments, then I had an idea. "Dad," I said as I stepped back, "It's after six. Things are under control down here, why don't we head upstairs and have dinner? Any further discussions can wait that long, right?"

He took a deep breath as he looked around my basement laboratory. "Yeah, I think that's an excellent idea."

He led the way back up the stairs and through the kitchen, but stopped short at the dining room.

"Hey," he half-turned back toward me, his eyes on the cooler still on the table, "why don't I, um, treat you to Fugly Bob's tonight?"

"Sure," I said with half grin, "I'll just stash that downstairs and meet you in the truck."

He looked at me with an attempt at a smile and nodded before heading for the front door. I heard the rustle of his jacket and a jingle as he checked the pocket for his keys as I clicked the cooler's lid closed and headed back to the basement. I cracked the lid long enough to drop in a fresh packet of dehumidifier and a sprinkle of nutrients before heading back upstairs.

I grabbed my jacket on my way out the door, pausing to lock up, then jumped the porch railing and skipped over to the idling truck. I hopped in and closed the door firmly to make sure it latched, clicked the seat belt, and straightened up to find Dad giving me a confused look.

"Uh, hey, something wrong?"

He blinked, "Oh, um. Just thinking. Do you, uh...still eat?"

I stared at him a moment. "I, ah," a couple giggles escaped, "I can see why you'd wonder about that, but I've been eating dinner with you almost every night, Dad."

He looked uncomfortable as he put the truck in gear and started down the road. "What...happens to the food?"

A full on laugh escaped this time. "Are you really asking me if I still use the bathroom?"

Dad's ears started getting pink, but he soldiered on. "Full disclosure, right? If you want to be more clinical, fine: what are your current dietary requirements, and what sort of... waste do you generate?"

I took a moment to control my giggles. Somehow, even when talking about systems I had built myself, it was close enough to 'potty humor' to be absolutely hilarious to me. "Ok, current dietary requirements...well, in a general sense, my organic reactor takes in water and almost any sort of food and turns it into electricity. It uses...well, there's actually quite a bit going on, a number of interlinked systems, but it takes in almost anything, I just have to avoid too much sugar. It is really very efficient, but there is some waste. Nothing toxic, handled easily by normal sewer systems, though I would have to be careful if I was in a place with a septic tank."

"So, you just avoid soda? Doesn't sound too bad."

"It isn't really. I'm going to need something more for MARS, the organic reactor doesn't generate enough to power all of the systems, and batteries are so heavy and inefficient. Even with investigations into graphene doped anodes and aluminum air technologies, I haven't found any storage medium that works with the space limits I have. And generators of the right size at that power load basically start at radioisotope thermoelectrical generation, and I would have to involve subcritical multiplicators to get the efficiency required, and I don't want to deal with fissionable materials and shielding against --" I realized Dad was giving me another look as we waited at a red light. I shifted under his gaze. "What?"

"Just," he sighed. "I remember when you would talk like this about books or summer camp. I was afraid you'd never be so enthusiastic again, and part of me is glad to see you like this, but what you had to go through..." He sighed again as the light changed.

"Yeah, I...no," I shook my head. "I am happy, Dad. Well, happier. A better lab and I'd be happy," I forced a smile for him. "I won't say I'm happy with what happened, but I'm happy right now...especially with you helping me. And I won't let the...intervening events stop me being happy."

"That's, ah...that's good." Dad smiled, with a few suspiciously damp blinks at my words as he pulled to a stop, the Fugly Bob sign just outside my window.

"Oh, I guess I got distracted," I said as I unbuckled and hopped out of the truck.

The place was pretty busy as we headed inside, but they seemed to have good turnover. It was less than fifteen minutes' wait before a waitress led us to our table. Neither of us really knew what to say while we waited, and once seated we both concentrated on the menus. Once we ordered, though, Dad watched the waitress leave, then did a quick scan of the neighboring tables. It wasn't overwhelming, but everyone around us seemed to be having a good, noisy time while eating.

"So, kiddo," he said in a normal tone of voice. At the moment, it was probably as good as whispering. "I was thinking about your...home schooling projects."

I nodded, "Yeah? They're coming along pretty well."

"Oh, quite. You've done more than I imagined since starting your self-study." I snorted into my water. Glancing around as I set my water glass on the table, I didn't notice anyone that caught my reaction.

"But, I think you've done about all you can in the basement." He glanced at me, and I nodded. "So, I was thinking. The Union has a number of warehouses, just temporary storage to hold cargo between ships and trucks. We don't have much coming through, so they sit empty."

Dad must have seen my eyes go wide at the thought of having an entire warehouse available. "Not that we can get anything big going on. Yet. They are only supposed to be used for transitioning cargo, by Union workers. I'll have to investigate the possibility, see about insurance and such, but it's a possibility. And it would keep you close during the day."

"That would be great, Dad," I said with a breath, "but even if that works out, I don't want just anyone to...mess with my experiments."

"Yeah, I thought so. Though, some more hands might be useful. Maybe...Kurt and Lacey?"

I gave that some thought as I looked around the room again. "I...don't know, Dad. I remember them coming over all the time, but I haven't seen much of them lately. I don't know if I could trust them around my...science project."

"Well, give it some thought while I look into using one of the warehouses tomorrow."

There wasn't much to talk about after that. Well, there was, but I think both Dad and I were about talked out on heavy subjects. We just chatted while waiting for the food, and I people watched a bit. The food was great, but the time just chatting was better.

We lingered over dinner for a bit, and even after we left and got home, we didn't return to talk of powers or tinkering or other planning. I took a look at the TV, and it was actually a quick fix. We finished the evening just watching an episode of Sherlock on PBS, then went to bed. There was enough going on in this world, and I hadn't realized before just how much I could miss this simple transparency with Dad. I didn't know if it would last -- maybe he'd wake up and flip out over my modifications -- but for the moment, for this night, it was going to be just me and Dad.


End file.
